Friday, 22 February 2013

Although I remain on writing hiatus, I am not on publishing hiatus and still have work to release.
Today saw the release of Anthology Volume Two at Smashwords, with other vendors to follow at a later date. You can read the first story below and the first 10% of the book at Smashwords.

Blurb:

Scarlet Blackwell's second collection of short m/m stories features characters old and new.
English
footballer Luke still craves the love of his German nemesis Dieter.
Jude is still smitten with the sweet and innocent Charlie.
Hot bosses
give away both kisses and spanking. A lovelorn architect desires a king
in medieval Wales. Rock stars conduct clandestine affairs on tour and
wicked highwayman Dante de Beaufort from Stand and Deliver gets another
outing.
The stories are diverse but they have common themes - love and lashings of sex.

What Happens on Tour

As Jake fumbles
with the key card, I glance up and down the deserted corridor before I press
myself against his lean, lithe body, making my need plain. He catches his breath,
pushes the door open, reaches behind him and pulls me into the darkness by my
wrist.

Downstairs in
the bar, he pretended to be drunker than what he really is, slurring his words
and bumping into furniture until I gave an exaggerated sigh and told our band
mates I’d see him to bed.

Oh, I’ll see him to bed all right.

In the elevator
we stood side by side with the tension crackling between us. This is the first
time on this tour we’ve stayed in a hotel and not on the bus. Hence the first
time we’ve got to share a room and be alone.

We’ve been doing
this for two years. When we go home, we go back to playing at straight boys
with our girls.

We never speak
about it.

What happens on
tour, stays on tour.

The first time
we did it, it was the culmination of ten years of unrequited desire. We were both
so drunk we could barely stand up, all inhibition gone. I was inconsiderate,
using a hasty slicking of spit before I took him against the wall by the door,
hurting him so much I’m not sure why he came back for more, but he did.

These days
condoms and lube are the first things in my bag when I start packing for a
tour.

The door slams
behind us and Jake finds my mouth in the dark, his lips burning hot with
passion, his breath coming in desperate pants. I taste alcohol and lust and
something else. Something Jake’s never going to say, for fear of breaking all
this apart.

Tongues
entwined, we stumble towards the bed, wrenching at clothes, kicking off shoes,
yanking at buttons and zippers.

I push Jake flat,
slide down his body, divesting him of pants and boxers on my way before I suck
him into my mouth.

Jake has the
most perfect cock. When it’s in my mouth, it makes my own throb. I’d never
admit to him how much I love to give him a blow job, because that would make me
unbelievably queer. We might speak during the act—moans for more, grunts of
appreciation—but never after. Never in the cold light of day when we wake up,
hungover and wrapped hard around each other.

Jake writhes
under my ministrations. I play with his balls, run my tongue lightly over his
sac, kiss his inner thighs before I nuzzle his neatly cropped pubic hair,
inhaling his intoxicating scent.

I’ve never met
anyone before who excites me as much as Jake does. Sometimes it’s all I can do
not to come when he first kisses me. I wonder if he feels the same. I like to
imagine he does, by the way I feel him tremble beneath me, by the sounds he
makes when I’m inside him.

I crawl up his
body, kissing all the way, lingering on tiny, taut nipples with my wet tongue,
liking how he arches beneath me. We kiss again, our cocks pressed together
urgently, our heavy breathing in tandem.

I scramble off
the bed to locate the supplies still nestling in the inside pocket of my bag. I
remember when we checked in this afternoon, he’d stood by the door of our room looking
around and then his clear, violet gaze met mine and I felt the jolt inside that
stiffened my cock. The promise.

His knees are
open when I crouch before him and lubricate him well before I roll on my condom
and slick that up too. I lean down to kiss him. By silent agreement, more often
than not we do it in the missionary position. This happens too infrequently and
it’s too special to do it where we can’t see each other’s faces. We both know
that.

When I push
inside him, he clutches at my back, nails digging in, thighs hard around me. He
whimpers, as he always does, as I move inside him, sounds of half-pain,
half-pleasure which become gasps, shudders, until he comes so hard that
sometimes I have to hold on to him to keep him still.

Never have I made
anyone come the way Jake does.

Tonight won’t be
an exception. He undulates under me, the muscles of his perfect body flexing,
his satin soft, tattooed skin sliding damply against mine. I bury my face in
his neck, biting softly, feeling him tremble.

I reach down,
enclose his hard cock in my fist and jerk him smoothly. He bucks into my touch,
groaning and it’s when he says my name that I totally lose control.

“Alex. Please,
Alex.”

I curse under my
breath, take his mouth hard and swallow his moans. He comes, convulsing around
me, spilling over my fingers and I follow hot on his heels, my cry lost beyond
his lips.

We lie in a
heap, still kissing, stretching languorously against the other. Jake laughs a
little but I know he’s not as drunk as he’s making out to be. That’s an
unspoken rule. We only do it when we’re drunk. Hence the pretence that has
happened too many times to count. Pretend you’re drunk or you don’t get it.

But I’ve had Jake
sober and it’s even better.

I ease free and
make for the bathroom. Under the harsh light, I discard my condom, wash and
pee. I look at myself in the mirror. The dark eyes reflected back are soft,
sated and my cheeks are flushed. I want more. I always want more. Once is never
enough. Nothing is ever enough with Jake.

But when I get
back, Jake’s on his side, breathing softly beneath the covers, the tattoos on
his back blurring into the shadows. The single bed is a squeeze, but I make it,
cuddling into him, one arm around him, nosing his sweet-smelling black hair.

I wish he was mine.

I wish we could
talk about this in the cold light of day and I could tell him I love him.